


Good Things

by orphan_account



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Awkward Thorin, Dwori - mentioned, Introverted!Thorin, Modern AU, Multi, Thilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-23 23:37:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/932431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A car accident leaves a once proud and egotistical Thorin scarred and partially blind, and he locks himself away from the outside world, certain that he deserves a life devoid of human interaction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pink Cat

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [美好的事物(Good Things)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344348) by [salicylate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salicylate/pseuds/salicylate)



Before the accident, Thorin was somewhat of a bastard. Of course, some would say he was worse now, because he was even grouchier, but at least now he wasn’t some sort of smug, self-satisfied, egotistical kind of grouch. No, now he was just a pathetic kind of grouch, one that pitied himself and was pitied by others.

When he thought about it, and he often tried not to, he could see the sense of it. Bad things generally only happened to good people, so when they did happen to those who deserved it, it was fate. Karma. Whatever you want to call it. Thorin got his comeuppance.

He didn’t deserve good things. He hadn’t before and he still didn’t now.

He hadn’t been driving when it happened. He’d been stupid enough to let Smaug do it, even though he was drunk out of his skull. He was practically overflowing with Vodka and Gin and other vile tasting drinks. They’d gone straight through a store, through a tall wall of glass, and then right into one of the pillars holding up the roof. Smaug had broken his neck on impact and died. Dwalin had told him later that the bastard would have killed someone soon enough, so it was probably good that he’d died. Thorin had punched him in the face, but later on quietly agreed.

Thorin had been stuck in the car for an hour and a half, profusely bleeding from massive gashes across his face and chest, while the emergency services had desperately tried to get him out. It was pretty hard though, considering the fact that the car was wrapped around a fucking pillar detrimental to the structure of the building. Eventually, though, Thorin got out, and was rushed to hospital. Not fast enough, though, to save his right eye. Well, that wasn’t right, actually. The damage had already been done to his eye before they got him out of the car. And it could have been worse, right? At least he could still see. And it wasn’t really gruesome or anything. The eyeball was fine. The damage to his skull, however, was not. _That_ had been pretty gruesome. But now his hair had grown back over those scars and it helped him feel a little more normal.

In the moments after the crash, when his mind had cleared and he realised Smaug was dead, he’d actually laughed. It had been a pained, mad sort of laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. A laugh at realising that he deserved to die slowly, bleeding to death while pinned in a crashed car next to some asshole he’d always hated but hung around with anyway.

It sounded vain, but Thorin had always thought he was quite handsome. Well, known was a better word for it. He had the typical family charm, and could have almost anyone he wanted. He’d always got what he wanted before the accident. So there was a sick sort of irony about the damage done to his face. The jagged scars along his cheeks and chin and neck and chest.

Needless to say, that had been a hit to his ego. As soon as he got out of the hospital, he’d locked himself in his apartment, refusing to come out. As the next few months passed he’d certainly found out who his friends really were. Everyone had suddenly disappeared from his life. All his so-called ‘friends’. The only people who ever really talked to him anymore were Balin, Dwalin and The Ri brothers.  There were, of course, others, like Dwalin’s boyfriend, or the guy with the hat that Nori stalked, but he didn’t know them all that much. And he liked it like that. He didn’t want any part in the outside world.

Oh, well, he was forgetting Bilbo.

“There’s a man out front of the apartment complex who’s girlfriend is throwing his clothes out of the window on the second story like something from a movie.” He called from the door just now. “And they ran out of Apple Pie, I have to say I'm rather upset about that. The lights on Wickham Street are on the fritz again,” he continued as he took off his jacket, set his umbrella down on the stand and walked into the kitchen where Thorin sat. “and that nice bookstore down the road is closing.” He handed Thorin a small bakery package and a take-away cup of coffee. “They had éclairs on sale.” He explained before turning on his heel and walking of the other side of the kitchen. “There was a man with purple hair at the café today.” Bilbo paused. “At least, I think it was a man. He had a beard, so I’m going to call him a man.”

Another pause. Thorin counted down mentally in his head. _Three, two, one…_

“It’s quite a nice day, you know,” Bilbo announced, coming back to the table now, and Thorin’s lips twisted into a small smile. “Even with all the rain and wind and that dreadful icy chill.”

“Are you trying to tell me I should go out in the middle of a storm?”

“Well, all the best things happen during storms,” Bilbo replied, placing his hands on his hips. “Don’t you watch any movies?”

Thorin gave no reply, and Bilbo just sighed and left the room to start the washing.

“There is a rather nice world out there, you know.” Bilbo called from the laundry. “Could you open a window?”

“The rain will soak into everything.” Thorin barked angrily.

He could hear Bilbo sigh again, hardly ever deterred by Thorin's snapping. “At least open the curtains. I can’t clean if I can’t see anything.”

Thorin groused about it, but settled for the curtain-opening. He blinked and winced when the light hit his good eye.

“Mister Crepeshaw in 204 asked about you again.” The washing machine clunked into life and Bilbo stuck his head through the doorway. “He’s still taken to wearing those ridiculous green pants I told you about last week.”

Bilbo always went into such detail of his mornings and Thorin wasn’t sure whether it was for his sake, or if that was just how Bilbo was, but it was sort of a nice ritual, sitting in the kitchen and listening to Bilbo go on about the silly things he saw on his way to work. The eclairs were nice, too.

He’d hired Bilbo a few months after the accident. He needed someone to go out and do things for him, like a personal assistant. He’d hated all the other people he interviewed, and Bilbo actually made eye contact rather than gaping at his scars. In fact, he never asked, or assumed of judged in any way. He just came in, smiled, did his job, and then left.

Thorin wasn’t always too pleased with that last part.

“Someone stole the head off that pony statue in the park, you know.” Bilbo told him when he set about fixing up the kitchen. “I don’t know how you steal the head of a metal statue, but there you go. Must have been a lot of planning for that one,” he mused. “People do steal odd things, don’t they? I had someone steal my Christmas decorations one year.” Bilbo pursed his lips. “The fuckers.”

Thorin snorted a laugh, and then they returned to amicable silence for some time.

“I’m getting pizza for lunch today,” Bilbo announced sometime round eleven. “I’m going to go and get that contract from Mister Elrond while I wait for it to arrive, so there is a possibility that you might have to answer the door. Alright?” Thorin did for a living what most people who are invalids do: he wrote. He did okay, and he made enough to keep himself fed and Bilbo paid, and he didn’t go out, so he didn’t have to worry about that. But his internet bill cost a fortune, because it was his only link to the outside world (apart from Bilbo, of course).

“I’ll bring back something for you to read.” He declared as he stepped out the front door, armed with an umbrella. Last time he’d bought a copy of some ridiculously named ‘gentlemen’s magazine’. Thorin had just rolled his eyes while and threw it across the room while Bilbo laughed. He hadn’t been interested in _that_ kind of thing for a long time.

The apartment was stiflingly quiet after he left ad Thorin found himself opening all the windows just for the sound.

Icy wind and drizzle splattered against his face and he inhaled deeply, enjoying the smell of rain on asphalt.

The pizza did arrive before Bilbo came back, and Thorin paid for it with the money Bilbo had left on the kitchen counter, all but growling at the delivery man who started frightfully at Thorin when he answered the door. He snatched the box out of the kid’s grasp, roughly shoving the money into his hands instead, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Bilbo came in shortly after, breaking up Thorin’s sulking session. Elrond’s contract was tucked neatly between his arm and his side, he held his umbrella in one hand and in his other some money. “This was left out front of the door,” he said, frowning at it.

“That’ll be your change.” Thorin said simply, staring at his computer.

Bilbo heaved a sigh, dropping the umbrella now. “Did you scare the pizza man again?” He set the contract down beside his laptop on the table, along with a brochure about the plans to extend the bus way.

“When did they decide this?” Thorin asked with a frown, abandoning his story. He ignored Bilbo’s question and instead, began flipping through the pamphlet.

“Ages ago,” he replied, grabbing the pizza box and flipping it open. “You’d know about it if you actually went out and talked to people.”

“Or you could just tell me about it now.”

Bilbo clicked his tongue. “You really ought to try it, you know. I’m only here Mondays to Fridays. That’s two whole days I’m away that you could be going out and doing things in.”

“If I went out and did things you’d be out of a job,” Thorin informed him now. “So maybe you’d better stop suggesting it.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes, pulling out a slice of the pizza and taking a bite. “Oh! Is so good,” he said through his mouthful. Thorin just raised an eyebrow. “What? It is. Don’t be so judgemental. Not all of us live off of protein bars.”

“I do not live off of protein bars.” But his vehement denial was only sounded stupider when you took into account the fact that his table was littered with empty bar wrappers. “They’re just snacks.”

“Snacks are things have you between meals,” Bilbo informed him, “they’re not snacks if they’re the only things you ever eat.”

Thorin groused before snatching a piece of pizza from Bilbo’s box. “Happy?” He said, taking a big bite with a flourish.

“You could have chosen a smaller slice.” Bilbo replied. “But apart from that, yes, I am happy.”

When Bilbo left a few hours later, Thorin turned to his computer and stared at the blank screen he’d been trying to fill up all day. With a heavy sigh he began to type, ignoring the thick silence that made him feel like the walls were closing in on him.

 

* * *

 

“Come on, man!” Frerin’s squawk came through the phone, making Thorin pull it away from his ear. “Dis is getting _married_ , Thorin, _married_. You have to be here for it. And no,” he continued, even though Thorin hadn’t actually said anything, “I will not bring my laptop and Skype you in it. Besides, it’s just family.” And their friends and partners, so no, not really ‘just’ family.

“They’ll stare. I’ll frighten the kids.”

“Oh, my God, you have a few scars, it’s not like you’re not Quasimodo. Most of the kids think it’s cool anyway.” When Thorin gave no reply, Frerin continued. “I’ll just call your friend that you’re in love with and get him to drag you here himself by your hair.” Bilbo would, too. Thorin didn’t bother to take the bait. Frerin had always made a habit for teasing Thorin, and were he a younger version of himself, Thorin would have risen to it and snapped back a denial and a list of insults, but he didn’t. He’d learnt to ignore the mocking quips a long time ago. Frerin sighed now, sounding resigned. “Look, you’ve been locked away for almost two years now. You’ve missed birthdays, Christmases, family gatherings. Everyone misses you. Last Easter mum burst into tears and locked herself in the bathroom for an hour.”

The guilt stung, but still Thorin did not reply. He couldn’t help what had already happened anyway.

“Just think about it, okay?” Frerin finished, voice cracking slightly in desperation. “We’d like to actually see you, you know, at least once more before we all wither and die.”

For a while they were both silent, the only sound between them their shared breathing. “I’ll think about it.” Thorin answered finally, before hanging up.

Frerin texted him an emoticon of a thumbs up a few minutes later.

Thorin was in a sour mood all morning, and not even Bilbo arriving made him feel much better.

“Someone’s snippy,” he commented dryly when Thorin snapped at him for moving his papers while cleaning.

Thorin pouted and stared at his computer screen.

“Your brother call?” Bilbo guessed, and when Thorin glanced up at him, somewhat surprised, he simply grinned smugly. “Had a feeling. You’re always nasty after he calls.”

Thorin wasn’t sure what to say to that. He settled for watching Bilbo for a few minutes while he wiped down the counter. “My sister’s getting married.” He announced suddenly.

“Oh, Dis?” Bilbo looked legitimately excited. “How nice!”

“They want me to go.”

Bilbo considered that for a moment. “Well, do you want to?”

“Of course not.”

“Not even to see your only sister walk down the aisle and get married?" Bilbo wondered. "I’d say that only happens once, but I suppose statistically it’s likely she’ll divorce within the first five years.”

“Thanks for that.” Thorin replied dryly, before turning to the subject at hand. “I do. I do. I just…”

“Don’t want to be stared at?” Bilbo guessed. “Believe me; they’ll be looking at her, not you.” He smiled understandingly. “You should consider it, at the very least. Just think about it. After all, do you really want to miss you sister’s wedding? Is it really worth it to miss all of that just because some people will stare?” Bilbo shrugged. “People like to stare. They’ll stare at you whether you like it or not. But it doesn’t really matter what a few rude people think, does it?”

Thorin was going to snap something at him about not really knowing what it was like, but he didn’t want to bicker with Bilbo. He never wanted to bicker with Bilbo. Bilbo was kind of his lighthouse, his anchor or whatever. Something that helped him along through the darkness. He felt good when Bilbo felt good, so it really wasn’t in his best interest to upset him. Bilbo was so… _good_ , and Thorin didn’t want to encroach on that. He felt greedy sometimes, with his time with Bilbo, like he was sucking up what little happiness Bilbo unwittingly shared with him.

Thorin didn’t deserve good things.

“Maybe,” he allowed eventually, though they both knew that that meant _no_.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I will not drop the subject, you know.”

Thorin turned his head away and allowed himself to smile. He knew Bilbo wouldn’t drop the subject, and he kind of liked that. Actually, he really liked that, having Bilbo involved in his life to that extent. 

“I saw a pink cat today,” Bilbo announced suddenly, thankfully changing the subject. “Some lady had it tucked into her purse like she was Paris Hilton or something. And they ran out of Apple Pie again today, I’m beginning to think they’re torturing me on purpose.”

Thorin allowed himself to settle into the familiar rabble of Bilbo’s chatter and set about getting some writing done.

 

 


	2. Just in Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be honest, I've actually already finished this story, so the next chapter will be up tomorrow for you all to read. Enjoy!

Sometimes he wished he’d just died in the accident and saved himself all this pity and misery. And then he remembered this was probably some sick punishment for the way he’d been before. The reminder was really only prevalent when his friends visited and told him all about all the crap going on in their lives, or when Bilbo left in the evening, chattering on about going to see friends or plans for the weekend. Then he’d step out into the hallway of Thorin’s apartment complex, close the door, and leave him with the stark reminder that Bilbo came here to be paid, not because of any actual interest he had in Thorin or his life.

Sometimes, both those things happened around the same time, which always set Thorin in a foul mood, although to be honest, he was always in a foul mood.

Thorin’s personality had left a lot to be desired, he knew that. But it was alright when he wasn’t a freak of nature. People put up with a lot when they had a pretty face to look at. It was different now.

He supposed that was a good thing, in a way. Hell, he might not be handsome anymore, but at least he knew that the people who surrounded him actually wanted to be with him, even if he was a right royal bastard.

If someone liked him (which was highly unlikely) then it was because he was _him_ , and not just something nice to look at.

“The place is great,” Ori was gushing now, all but sitting on Dwalin’s lap as he spoke. “It has its own bar, and Dwalin’s been talking about getting a Jacuzzi. You have no idea how excited my brother’s are about coming over now. They always hated the old house, it was too small for all of us, and-”

“ _And_ ,” Dwalin cut in gently, “you should come and see it sometime.”

“Right,” Ori beamed down at his boyfriend. “ _Yes_. You can even bring your friend, because we have the room-”

“I think Bilbo would be a little too busy with his own life to come and see a stranger’s house.” Thorin replied, rolling his eyes.

Ori’s face fell a little, but Dwalin jostled him, and after sharing a quiet look with him, Ori smiled once more.

“Regardless,” Dwalin told him, “you should come. It might be good for your creative juices or whatever. Elrond is always on your back about getting out and doing something in the real life. He’s worried you’ll start to sound disconnected in your writing. And when that happens, there goes your income.” Dwalin waved his arm through the air, almost knocking Ori off of his lap.

“I’ve got plenty of connection with the outside world, thank you.”

“Second hand accounts do not count, Thorin.” Dwalin looked annoyed. “How many words have you written this week?” When it became apparent that Thorin would not reply, Dwalin pushed. “How many?”

“A hundred or so,” Thorin mumbled.

Dwalin pressed a hand behind his ear. “What was that?”

“A hundred or so.” Thorin repeated, louder.

Dwalin gave him an ‘I fucking knew it’ look, which was almost identical to his ‘I told you so’ look. They were not always mutually inclusive, but in this circumstance they were. “That is _well_ behind your quota, and don’t try to tell me it isn’t.”

“You don’t even have to go outside if you want,” Ori chimed in, sweetly helpful and fucking annoying as always. “You can just sit in one of the spare rooms, or the living room, or even out the back if you want some air.”

Thorin had to admit, he was a little tempted. But only a little.

“We’ll let you think about it,” Dwalin said, shrugging. “But don’t think we’ll let the subject drop. I will be personally harassing you until you’re so worn down you have to say yes.”

“Wonderful.” Thorin also had to admit, it was nice having people so adamantly pushing for him to come back outside. As annoying as it was, he knew they wouldn’t do so if they didn’t care. Like he’d thought before, things like this always show you who your real friends are.

Ori and Dwalin left soon after, off to go buy furniture from IKEA that looked easy to make, but would no doubt create a series of bickers and squabbles and leave at least one screw on the ground which probably should have gone somewhere on the furniture, even though it was all completed and upright.

“They had Apple Pie!” Bilbo cried triumphantly half an hour later when he arrived for work. He slammed the door behind him, waving the bag excitedly. Thorin wrinkled his nose when the smell hit him. He _loathed_ Apple Pie.

“Good for you.” He grumbled, writing one more line to his story and feeling somewhat proud of himself. That probably said something about his progress, but right now he didn’t care.

“Going well, then?” Bilbo peered over his shoulder, and Thorin let him look. He only ever let Bilbo look. With anyone else he would have just snapped the laptop closed and hid it under the table, but Thorin had decided a long while ago that Bilbo saw enough of Thorin’s embarrassing life anyway, so what was one more aspect?

“I think I read this yesterday.” Bilbo murmured, scrolling a little.

Thorin slapped his hand away. “It’s slow going.” He replied haughtily.

Bilbo grinned. “You’re stuck, aren’t you?”

“I am not.” Was his mature and well-thought reply.

“Are too.”

“Am not.” Thorin insisted again.

Bilbo pushed himself up off the table and back into the kitchen. “You totally are.” He declared. “And also, I bought new tea towels because those-” he gestured to the ones hanging off wall, “are _gross_.”

“I’ll pay you back,” Thorin replied, slowly rising from his chair with a frown. Bilbo should have just said something, then Thorin could have given him the money.

“They were, like, five pounds, Thorin. I think I can sweat that.”

“Well…” he sat back down. “If you’re sure.”

“Certain.” He ripped the old towels down and hung the new ones up. “There,” he gave a happy smile before dumping the old ones in the bin. “All better.”

Thorin’s stomach gave a little hitch at the thought of Bilbo buying things for his place. He had on more than one occasion, thought about asking Bilbo to become a live-in assistant. Hell, it’d be a lot easier, and he couldn’t deny he liked the company. Plus, it was always helpful to have someone with two working eyes around. And, obviously, his new favourite pastime _was_ watching from the corner of his good eye while Bilbo leaned up on the tips of his toes, struggling to get plates or cups from the hanging cupboards.

_“Did you need help?” he would call, hiding a smirk when he heard a quiet litany of mumbled curses._

_“No, no, I’ve got it.” He’d always end up lifting himself onto the counter so he could easily rifle through the cabinets._

“I suppose I was in need of some new ones…” Thorin mused in the present day, looking at the brightly coloured dishcloths.

“You’re in need of a new _everything_.” Bilbo gestured around himself. “You know, a dishwasher would cut back on your water usage. Plus, it means there’s one less thing for me to do.” But that meant someone would have to install it.

“I don’t want anyone in the house.” Thorin intoned with a furrow to his brow. “I don’t like strangers in the house.”

Bilbo, ever patient and understanding, smiled. “I know,” he returned lightly. “I’m just saying. A dishwasher would be nice.”

Thorin gave a murmur and turned back to his work, and they both fell into a long, comfortable silence. Feeling somewhat cheerier than he had this morning, Thorin even got a whole half page written before Bilbo spoke again.

“I saw that woman with the pink cat again today.” He announced casually, frowning into the pantry.

Thorin smiled.

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo had weekends off, Thorin felt a little bit lost. When nine o’clock rolled past and Bilbo hadn’t burst through the door with news that was completely irrelevant to anything at all, Thorin always felt uncomfortable.

He opened the windows every Saturday, like Bilbo always ordered him to, and sat near them, looking out at the watery light and people darting along the path like ants. He didn’t really do much writing. His weekends were reserved for doing sit-ups with his toes curled under the edge of the door and staring idly at nothing in particular while he waited for the hours to pass before he could go to bed.

It was a pitiful existence. It really was. And Thorin made no effort to deny that.

He glanced down at the invitation in his hands that had arrived yesterday with the mail. His sister’s handwriting gracefully curved over the cover. On the inside was a threat: _You will come or I will fly over there and drag you out of your Hobbit Hole by your hair and bring you there myself_.

Thorin chuckled, fingers running over the ink. He couldn’t _not_ go, that much was obvious. He was a vitriolic son of a bitch, but he wasn’t that cruel of a person that he’d miss his little sisters wedding. He’d done a lot of bad things in his life, but he certainly wasn’t going to add that to the list.

The question wasn’t whether to go or not. The question was _how_ to get here. He could just drive. It would take a while and occasionally he’d have to step out of the car to get fuel, but it seemed a much better option than a plane with a hell of a lot more people who would stare and whisper and flinch upon seeing him. He had a car he never used that just sat on the side of the road out front of the apartment. Bilbo had had to run down there more than once to inform the tow trucks that the car wasn’t just abandoned there, that yes, it did actually belong to someone in the apartment complex, and that it was, in fact, allowed to be there, despite its lack of use.

With a sigh he ticked the ‘attending’ on the R.S.V.P card and hesitated for a few seconds before ticking the ‘plus one’ box as well. Just in case.

 

* * *

 

“A date.” Thorin repeated very slowly, watching as Bilbo hummed happily in the laundry some weeks later. Something unhappy slithered in his gut and spiked along his spine, but he didn’t pay any attention to it. Just leaned against the doorway with a frown on his face.

“Yes.” Bilbo informed him with a wide smile that Thorin would have usually liked, but did not like one bit in this circumstance. “We’re going to that nice Italian place that just- Oh,” he broke off with a wave of his hand, “you wouldn’t know where it is anyway.”

Thorin felt strangely upset at that. It was true, of course, he had no idea about new restaurants opening. But there was just something about it that made him slightly depressed.

“I could know,” he argued now, only to appease some silly sort of feeling in his stomach. “I could.”

Bilbo just looked at him in confusion. “You hate eating out. You told me you even hated eating out before you hated going outside altogether.”

“Well,” Thorin looked at his feet, kicking at the linoleum with the heel of his bare foot. “I’m just saying. And this is the guy you met at the…?”

“Flower shop.” Bilbo finished pleasantly, snapping the dried shirt he held, as if trying to scare the wrinkles out of it. “We were both buying flowers for our mothers. Although, it was a bit awkward when he found out that my mother was actually dead, but we really hit it off, even with that.”

Thorin wrinkled his nose. “He sounds boring.”

Bilbo barked a laugh. “I’ve barely even told you about him.”

Thorin just shrugged a little morosely. “He sounds boring,” he repeated simply. “Not really your type at all.”

“And what is my type?” Bilbo wondered. “Hmm?”

“Well… not boring.”

“Not boring.” Bilbo repeated with a quirked smile and a raised eyebrow, and Thorin nodded.

“Sure,” he affirmed, “not boring.”

“You want to expand on that a little?”

Thorin was stuttering some pathetic reply when, thankfully, his phone began to ring. “I’d better get that…” he mumbled, almost tripping over himself to get back into the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Thorin? It’s Elrond.”

“Ah,” Thorin straightened, “What did you need?”

“I read the new chapter.”

“And?”

“Well… it’s good. Don’t think it’s not. It’s just... well, a little on the short side.”

Thorin huffed noisily. “I know.”

“I’ll email it back to you to expand. Just a little- or as much as you can do. We don’t want it sounding odd because you were forced to stretch it.”

“Alright,” Thorin replied with a fair amount of resignation. “I’ll get on it tonight.”

He could hear Elrond beam. “Good. I’ll talk to you later. Oh, and Thorin?”

“Yes?”

“Did you think about that radio interview, because Thranduil promised not to talk about your accident, and no one can even see you-”

“I told you no last week, Elrond, and it’s not going to change.” He hung up before Elrond could protest.

“You look bummed out.” Bilbo called from the laundry.

“Just rewrites.” Thorin informed him dully. “And the worst day of my life.” He continued, more to himself. “But it doesn’t matter, I’ll get over it.”

“Well, you ought to.” Bilbo agreed, suddenly right behind him, making Thorin jump. “You should go out. You could even come with me tonight, I’m sure Peter won’t mind.”

Thorin was tempted to jump on the offer with a babbled string of acceptances, but shook his head instead. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your date with the boring guy.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Don’t jinx it,” he slapped Thorin’s arm teasingly. “I haven’t been on a date in forever, and I’m not fond of screwing it all up just because you said he was boring.”

Thorin wondered if it would be rude if he announced that the man was boring again, then decided he just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “He probably looks just as boring as he sounds.”

“I didn’t realise you were such an expert on attractiveness.” Bilbo replied, before freezing and slapping his hands to his mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that.” He insisted through his fingers, shaking his head quickly.

“It’s alright.” Thorin suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Not only because he was upset at what had been said, but also because it was simply a joke, and Thorin had immediately taken it the wrong way.

“No, no it’s not alright. I always say the worst things.” He dropped his hands from his mouth and sighed. “Besides, you have nothing to be self conscious about anyway. You still look…” he waved a vague hand towards Thorin, as if it explained everything.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Thorin said, face twisting downward.

“Of course you don’t,” Bilbo rolled his eyes. “You’re completely oblivious to it.” He inhaled deeply before continuing, speaking as if the words he said were complete fact. “You’re still ridiculously good looking, even with the scars. There are some of us who aren’t blessed with that kind of luck.”

For some weird reason, Thorin was feeling absurdly angry at the words. “Right. Because, of course, my appearance is the most important aspect of me.”

Bilbo looked confused. “I didn’t-”

“No, you insinuated it plainly enough without having to say it-”

“Oh, my God,” Bilbo cut in, exasperated. “You are such an asshole! You know that, right?”

That made Thorin pause. “Well, yes.” That was obvious enough.

The anger melted away from Bilbo’s face instantly, and he burst into laughter. “Jesus Christ.”

Thorin wasn’t really sure what to do, or whether Bilbo was laughing at him, his honesty, or the situation as a whole. So he just stood there and waiting for Bilbo’s paroxysms to cease.

“You’re not pretty, Thorin.” Bilbo informed him eventually, and he felt a small slice of hurt cut through him at that. “Pretty is… relative. It fades quickly and to be honest, I’m not really sure it exists at all. There are plenty of pretty people in the world. You forget them instantly. Then there are others, people like you. People who have this personality so intense that it just shows on your face. You’re interesting, you’re enrapturing, you’re charismatic. You’re not pretty, Thorin, you’re _attractive_. There’s a difference. And it’s not an insult. Your scars are part of who you are, they’re what makes you… you,” Bilbo finished with another wave at him.

Silence followed.

And really, what was he supposed to say to that? It had to be the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. People had complimented him all the time before the accident, about how handsome he was, how good-looking. They cooed over his face and hair and eyes. They cooed over his body. But this wasn’t like that. Bilbo wasn’t talking about his face or his eyes or his hair or his body. He was talking about Thorin as a whole, his personality included. And it was rather flattering to find that Bilbo thought his personality was lovely, even though they both new how much of a wanker Thorin was most times. His reaction to this whole thing was case in point. His subtle attempts to sabotage Bilbo’s yet to occur date said the same thing. He was a rude, crude, selfish bastard who didn’t really deserve anything nice. And Bilbo was nice. Bilbo was _really_ nice.

Bilbo was… _Bilbo_ , and there was really no other way to describe him. If he could, Thorin would probably wax poetical about him a lot more, but for now he’d just settle for the blind adoration he pretended he didn’t feel.

“Right…” Thorin cleared his throat, feeling his face warm. “Thanks.”

“Well, I’m sure people don’t say it enough, so I thought I’d…” Bilbo gave a shrug, and then he checked his watch, ruining the moment. “I’d better finish up if I want to get to my date.”

Thorin’s good mood instantly soured. “Yeah.”

He watched Bilbo turn and rush back to finish the last of the chores, and grab the letters Thorin needed to mail, before slipping on his coat and, as he did every night, preparing to leave Thorin alone with his annoying thoughts.

“See you later!” He called, slamming the door and leaving Thorin to stand in his suddenly very colourless and cold apartment.

 

 


	3. Plus One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update, yay.

Dis squealed into the laptop when he accepted her request to Skype later that night. “You’re coming, you’re coming!” She was jumping up and down in her seat, face lit up ad completely delighted that Thorin had a hard time _not_ laughing with her.

“I’m coming.” He reiterated, smiling. “To scare the children and lie to distant relatives and say that I fought a bear.” He still couldn’t jest properly about it without feeling sick, but Dis didn’t need to know that.

Dis clapped her hands together. “This is going to be great. You should have seen how mum reacted.”

Thorin felt a little better at the thought that he’d actually done something right for once. “Well, this better be one hell of a show.”

“I’m sure there’ll be some catastrophe you can laugh about while you’re sitting in the corner at the reception. Speaking of which…” she reached out of sight, grabbing something before returning to the camera and waving his R.S.V.P card in front of it. “ _Plus one_?” she demanded, looking like she was visibly holding in even more excitement, which Thorin would have thought was impossible.

Thorin shrugged, going to nonchalant. “It’s a maybe. I don’t know if he wants to come yet.”

“And by that you mean you haven’t gotten the balls to ask him yet, right?”

Thorin sighed heavily. “Yes.”

“Just ask him, Thorin. If he says no, then he says no.”

It wasn’t just that. Thorin was sure Bilbo wouldn’t laugh. But he might feel awkward enough about the question for the mood of his visits to change. Not to mention he might be _so_ uncomfortable that he stops working for Thorin altogether. And really, Thorin would rather have that than risk it.

“I suppose so,” he said instead, not wanting to go into the whole issue with his sister, who wouldn’t really get it. “I’ll let you know when I ask.”

“Good. And you’d better do it soon,” she added, pointing a finger at him. “There are only so many seats and if they’re all filled before you ask your potential, then you’ll miss out.”

“Right.”

“Oh, and Ripley,” she angled her head sideways and yelled the name, “Ripley, say hi!”

“Hi!” Came the vague greeting from somewhere else in the house. Dis grinned.

“Hi, Ripley.” Thorin replied, even though he couldn’t see him.

“He’s cooking right now, so he can’t come over, but he can hear us.” Great. Another witness to his awkward plus one debacle. “And Ripley says that you should just ask him. Best to do these things quickly, like pulling off a band aid, or grabbing a really fast frog or something.”

“Okay,” he sighed, deciding to just let her finish. It’d be quicker that way.

They spoke for a little while longer, up until Dis was yawning so much that they were outnumbering her words. They parted ways and Thorin flicked off his computer, snapping it closed and getting to his feet. He stretched as he made his way to bed, not bothering with the lights. Most of them had been turned off anyway, because Thorin had been too lazy to even turn them on when it had gotten dark. He collapsed in his bed, not bothering to pull the covers up around him, and tried to think about what he would say were he to ask Bilbo to the wedding.

‘ _I’m completely mad for you but I know I’m an asshole and you probably secretly hate me but come to my sister’s wedding anyway_ ’ just didn’t seem all that right. ‘ _I need someone there who isn’t going to look at me like I’ve grown a third head, and maybe to also stop me after five whiskeys_ ' sounded a little better, but he wasn’t sure it was going to get Bilbo to say yes.

He fell asleep muttering about it...

… and woke up with Bilbo snickering down at him while he was drooling over the pillows.

“Shit!” he jolted awake, scrambling to find a shirt, or _something_.

“Sorry,” Bilbo had the grace to look at least slightly sheepish. “You looked so peaceful, I was deciding whether or not to wake you, but you woke up on your own!”

“Yeah, because gibbering with a bunch of saliva running down your chin looks _graceful_.”

Bilbo laughed at his joke, and Thorin felt a little less embarrassed. “I got you an éclair.” He handed Thorin the bag before turning on his heel. “And I’m opening your windows!” He called from the living room. Thorin just ate his éclair and followed him out.

“How was the date?” He wasn’t sure he wanted to ask, mainly because Bilbo seemed so cheery this morning, but he was too curious not to.

Bilbo shrugged. “Alright.”

 _That_ was good. “Just alright?” He asked as he sat on the sofa, watching Bilbo wrestle with the curtains. He’d been aiming for casual and nonchalant, but his voice was a little too high for that.

Bilbo didn’t seem to notice. “I think you were right when you said he was boring.” He made a face. “I don’t know if it’s because you said it and now I can’t get it out of my mind, or if he actually _is_ really boring, but I kept looking at my watch.”

Thorin tried not to sound delighted. “What a pity.”

“I guess,” Bilbo shrugged again. “Maybe I’m just not that interested in the kickass world of Self Improvement Classes.”

Thorin choked on his chocolate-y breakfast. “The guy does pep talks for a living?”

“Yeah.” Bilbo sighed. “The whole time he sounded like he was talking to me like he’d talk to someone who paid for one of his classes. _And_ , he didn’t even order dessert. Who the hell doesn’t order dessert? I asked if he wanted to share mine, because, you know, maybe he didn’t have that much money or something, but he told me he didn’t like desert.” Bilbo shook his head, eyes wide and hair wild, and Thorin swallowed heavily. “What the hell, right? My mother always used to tell me to never trust someone who doesn’t like desert. Is that even human?”

Thorin snickered, wiping his mouth. “Good advice.” And that wasn’t just because Thorin loved dessert, okay? It really wasn’t.

“So, I don’t know if I’ll see him again.” Bilbo concluded, plonking down on the chair across from Thorin. “I was never really very good at dates anyway.”

“I know what you mean.” Actually, Thorin didn’t. Well, he _did_ and he didn’t at the same time. When he was younger he was confident and eager and every date he went on went wonderfully. But now… now he had no idea what he was doing. He’d fumble and say something stupid and ruin it completely. He was such a polarised version of his old self that when he looked back, he didn’t really even see it as _him_ anymore.

Bilbo didn’t seem to believe him either, if the look he was giving Thorin was anything to go by. “Well, I mostly know.” Thorin relented. “Maybe before I knew, but I’ve got no clue now.”

Bilbo smiled softly. “That’s cute.” He decided, making Thorin flush. “And I’m sure you’d do fine. You’d just have to go with the right person, is all. Some people just clash on dates.”

“And by the right person, you mean someone who isn’t sickened by the sight of my face.”

“I _meant_ someone who isn’t a complete dickhead.” So someone completely opposite to Thorin, then. He smiled, while Bilbo continued. “But there are a lot of dickheads out there, unfortunately, so it’s kind of luck a lucky dip.”

“We are a prolific breed.” Thorin agreed. “Uh… I, uh, I accepted my sisters invitation to her wedding.”

“Oh?” Bilbo perked up, beaming. “You did?!”

“I did. It's a, uh, date to work to, so... you know. She, uh… wanted to know if I was bringing anyone.”

“You mean like Ori or Dwalin or someone?”

“Well, uh, yeah.” Kind of. “I was wondering if maybe,” his words were stilted and awkward, “you’d want to go.”

“Me?” Bilbo looked surprised. “You want me to come?”

“Well, we get along. And I’d just be sitting by myself if I went on my own, watching everyone dance, so I suppose it would be nice to have some company… I mean, you don’t have to-”

“No, I’d love to!" Bilbo insisted. "I do like weddings.”

A yes hadn’t been what Thorin was expecting. In fact, it had been the last thing he thought would be said. “Oh,” that had been easy. But then again, most things with Bilbo were easy. Well, up until when they fought anyway. “Great. It’s in September, so you’ve got a while… I’ll be driving as well, so… you know.”

“Cool, I’ll put it on my calendar.” Bilbo got to his feet, dusting his hands off on his pants. “Well, I’d better get to work. I’ve got to go and get groceries and your oven light is still flickering, so-”

“You know, you don’t have to rush about like your hair's on fire.” Thorin told him.

“That’s my style, I’ll have you know.” Bilbo replied haughtily. “Did you want anything specific from the store while I’m out?”

Thorin thought briefly about saying ‘condoms, lube and a tub of whipped cream’, but decided against it. That was probably a little bit too forward. He shrugged. “Just the usual.” _Very well delivered, Thorin, very smooth._

“Alright,” Bilbo grabbed the shopping list off of the fridge. “I’ll be back soon.”

Thorin wondered if it’d be too eager if he called his sister right now to tell her that his plus one debacle had been solved.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I edited this one quickly, because I'm on my way out, so if you do see any errors then give me a buzz so I can fix them!


	4. The World Outside

He still had nightmares sometimes, about the blood and the painful snapping noise he had heard from the driver’s seat, which was presumably Smaug’s neck snapping. Usually he could handle them, but this one in particular had had him jolting awake, choking and wiping his hands over his face to get rid of the tears. He didn’t sleep after that, and spent most of the morning staring hollowly at the wall like a zombie.

Bilbo didn’t say anything when he arrived. Well, that wasn’t quite true. He’d been rambling on before he even opened the door, but stopped when he saw Thorin. He just set the éclair down next to him and went about his tasks. When the phone went off, Bilbo sent it to messages and unplugged it from the wall.

Thorin hadn’t, of course, turned off his mobile phone, though, so it had trilled and trilled and trilled until Thorin had mad and a half and just answered it.

“What do you want?” he groaned.

“Thorin,” Frerin drew out the word, like they were old pals running into each other for the first time in ages. “How you doing?”

“I’m fine, Frerin. What do you want?”

“Just calling to check up on you. You know, see how you’re going.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“What are you, my psychiatrist?”

“Are you seeing a psychiatrist?”

“No, Frerin, I’m not.”

“Well, maybe you should.” And then he’d just gone on about how it’d be good for him to talk to someone, and how these things are always better once aired out- like he was some sort of God damned expert, and Thorin just had enough.

“I am not some sort of broken toy you can fix.” He’d snapped, before hitting the disconnect button and throwing the phone across the room in his anger. He caught sight of Bilbo watching from the kitchen and felt himself redden. “Sorry,” he muttered, trying to relax. “I just-”

“It’s alright. You know, my friend Hamfast lost an arm in the war.”

Thorin turned to look at Bilbo, an eyebrow raised.

Bilbo just shrugged. “He always said that people trying to help him felt the worst. That when he did get out again and start acting (well, not _normal_ , but you know what you mean), that he did it of his own volition. It’s got to be your choice or it won’t work, and you might not be ready for it. Just, uh,” he gave a small smile, “don’t be throwing any phones in my general direction, yeah?”

Thorin exhaled, though he hadn’t realised he was holding a breath in the first place. “Yeah.”

“Coffee?” he gestured at the kettle.

“Thanks,” Thorin gave a nod. Bilbo may have been annoying, and talked a mile a minute, and insisted on making him fat with those éclairs, but he got it. Thorin wasn’t something Bilbo needed to fix; to him Thorin was just… Thorin. And Thorin had never been worried about showing his nasty side around Bilbo, just like, occasionally; Bilbo seemed okay with showing Thorin _his_ nasty side. 

Things could be _normal_ with Bilbo.

Thorin sighed. “This wedding is going to be…”

“Frustrating?” Bilbo supplied helpfully, setting a hot mug on his desk.

“I was going to use a few more… unsuitable words. But yes, _frustrating_ will do.”

“It’ll be fine,” Bilbo insisted, “I won’t even make you dance.”

“Well, I appreciate that,” he replied dryly.

Bilbo leant in, as if whispering a secret. “I can’t really dance either, so it’s fine.”

Thorin laughed.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes he got fan mail, sometimes he wrote back. Usually it was just the usual: _thank you for your encouragement, blah blah blah, yours sincerely, Thorin._ There was one, however, that was a little different. He’d received an email a few weeks ago from a man named A. Fielder. He’d been a journalist, reporting in Syria when a car exploded. He lost three fingers, broke his legs and incurred serious damage to his head and face. Fielder was an introvert as well, and hadn’t left his home since he’d arrived back in the country.

 _People just stare,_ he’d written to Thorin. _Like I’m some sort of freak. I guess in a way I am. I’m not the same I was anymore; I doubt I’ll ever be that person again._

So he’d replied, and they’d gotten to chatting, and over the last few weeks they’d gotten to know each other better. It felt good to talk to someone who’d been through something similar, who felt the same anxiety about being a social pariah. Who looked in the mirror and saw nothing of the person they were before the accident.

Fielder didn’t like Frerin. To be honest Thorin didn’t even like Frerin that much most days. _I don’t have a brother_ , he’d told Thorin, _I wonder sometimes if that’s a good thing or not._

 _He means well,_ Thorin had written back, _even if he is lacking the brain cells to go through with it._

Most of the skin around Fielder's face was scarred and mangled horribly; he’d been considering surgery, though he said that maybe it wasn’t the best option because honestly he’d rather look like a scarred freak than some sort of Katie Price impersonator.  Thorin knew this, of course, after hesitantly agreeing to one or two Skype sessions. Fielder hadn’t flinched when he saw Thorin, and Thorin didn’t flinch when he saw Fielder, and it was nice.

Thorin found himself saying things he couldn’t tell his family, was too worried to tell Bilbo. Because Fielder got it. They were in the same boat here.

Fielder thought Thorin should write about it, because there were a lot of people going through the same thing, but Thorin told him he wouldn’t know what to say, or even how to say it. There were some things you just didn’t have words for in the English language.

Thorin told Fielder he should try writing about it. Fielder and laughed and shrugged and said he could barely write a note coherently, how was he supposed to get through a whole book?

Thorin was beginning to wonder the same thing about his own writing, the productivity of which wasn’t going all that well. So far he’d done well in ignoring two calls and an email from Elrond about how the editing for the new chapter was going.

“You could always just do what everyone else does when they’re stuck and bullshit.” Bilbo suggested one afternoon, leaning out the window across the room. “You know, have your protagonist ramble on about memories for a bit.”

Thorin sighed and stretched in his chair. “Tell me about the work on the bus way.”

So he listened to Bilbo ramble on about the terrible traffic and the horrible drilling noise near his house, and how walking home a few days ago he saw some of the men accidentally scrape the side of a car parked nearby and just shuffle away and continue on like he’d done nothing at all.

The distraction was nice, and gave Thorin a little inspiration, but inspiration was different to productivity. So far he’d barely written a page.

“Alright,” Bilbo said from the door, making him jump. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right. Yes. Tomorrow.” He hadn’t realised so much time had passed. The door closed with a loud _clack_ and Thorin was left sitting on his own once more.

His apartment felt stuffy, like the walls were closing in, like the air was old and thick. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The windows were wide open, and the wind was blowing through, so he knew that wasn’t the problem.

Hell, he knew what the problem was. He wanted to go _outside_. Just to the park or somewhere he could get a drink and sit and not be stuck in the house.

He was up on his feet before he could really consider it, and only paused at the door for a moment, hand outstretched and shaking, before he yanked it open and stepped into the hallway of the apartment complex.

He could hear a couple arguing somewhere and a baby crying, loud music thumping, the elevator at the end of the hall dinging. It was like sensory overload, all the sounds and colours. He stopped halfway down the hallway, ears ringing. He was pretty sure he was having some kind of panic attack, because all of a sudden he found it hard to breathe.

“Thorin!” the voice made him jump. “You alright?”

He turned slowly, composing himself.  “Hello, Mister Crepeshaw.” His voice crackled a little. He cleared his throat and gave the man from 204 a small smile.

Crepeshaw didn’t flinch, for which Thorin was grateful. “Haven’t seen you in a while!” he said happily, slapping a hand on Thorin’s shoulder.

“Yeah, well, I’ve been…” Hiding? Avoiding everyone? Wallowing in my own self pity? “Busy.”

“Oh, yes, well, you writers always are. Busy, busy, busy.” He waved his hands about animatedly and Thorin repressed a laugh.

He felt his lips twitch into a smile. “Nice trousers.” The infamous green trousers were a bit of an eyesore, he had to admit, and they sat unflatteringly on the man hips, but Thorin had to admit, they kind of suited his personality: odd.

 “Huh?” he looked down, before smiling back up at Thorin. “Oh, thanks!” He looked delighted. “They might just be my favourite thing in the world.” He gave the green corduroys a happy pat. “Your friend complimented me on them the other day.”

Thorin was all out grinning now. “Of course he did.”

“You know, you look” - _oh God_ , Thorin winced, _here it comes_ \- “fit!”

That threw him off for a moment. “What?” he asked after gaining some composure. Not what he’d been expecting.

“Yeah, I always envied men with arms like yours, I don’t really know what you do to get ‘em like that,” Crepeshaw lifted up his own wiry arms now. “Mine are so little.” He moved closer, as if to better inspect Thorin’s muscles. “What _do_ you do to get them like that?”

“Uh…” Thorin wasn’t quite sure if Crepeshaw was just being ignorantly overfriendly, or actually hitting on him. Whatever it was, it was highly uncomfortable. “I have to go, Mister Crepeshaw.”

“Oh, right, of course!” he pulled his hand away from Thorin’s bicep. He threw his hands up in an eccentric sort of shrug. “Busy!”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He gave Crepeshaw a half-hearted pat on the shoulder, which seemed to only serve to make the man happier. “I’ll see you later.”

“So nice to have such friendly neighbours.” He heard Crepeshaw sigh to himself before going inside.

Thorin walked back to his apartment door, wondering if maybe Mister Crepeshaw was on some sort of drug. It was possible. His behaviour didn’t seem normal. Then again, Crepeshaw had always been like that. The trousers were new, though.

He chuckled again, though his hands were still shaking and blood was still rushing in his ears and his heart was still pounding, so he sat down at his table and began writing about an overfriendly neighbour who wore ugly pants and liked to talk a lot about his muscles.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: Fielder is an anagram for Defiler, so A. Fielder is Azog the Defiler.


	5. The Best Things Happen During Storms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so as always, if you see any errors tell me so I can fix them up! Enjoy.

“Do you _have_ to go?” Thorin was trying to keep the sullen whine out of his voice, but he was failing pretty spectacularly.

“It’s his birthday! Of course I have to go.” Bilbo had often told Thorin about his nephew, living in some town he’d never heard of on the other side of the country. Bilbo always said he would have taken the boy in himself after his parents had died, but didn’t have that kind of money. And the Sackville-Baggins’ had plenty of money, despite Lobelia's complaints otherwise, Bilbo would add with narrowed eyes. They were best equipped to take care of little Frodo.

“Next week.” That, at least gave him a week to make sure the house was stocked enough with food that he didn’t die.

“Yes,” Bilbo told him, “and I’ll only be gone for two or three days, tops.”

Thorin still didn’t like it. He felt a bit like a spoilt child having its favourite toy taken from them, but that wasn’t the point.

“Well,” he said, “have fun.”

“Oh, I will. I got him one of those robots that dance across the floor. It’s awesome. Oh, don’t look so depressed, Thorin.” Bilbo slapped a hand on his shoulder, “you’ll survive for a few days without éclairs and someone to do your washing.” Thorin wasn’t sure he would, but he didn’t say so. “So, I’ll just buy extra food on Friday, and I know you can actually do the dishes, even though you pretend not to know how, so I know you’ve got that covered.”

“Are you looking to have a job when you come back?” Thorin asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Bilbo laughed.”Alright. Alright. Point emphatically taken. Get back to your writing.”

Thorin was beginning to think that writing was overrated. He said as much, and Bilbo shrugged.

“Well, you chose that career.”

“Maybe I’ll do something else. My spam mail tells me I can earn big money from home,” he deadpanned, making Bilbo guffaw a little.

“I only really get those Viagra spam messages. I have a friend who gets ones that just say ‘local sluts’ and nothing else.”

He wasn’t really sure why they were talking about this, so Thorin just shrugged and finished making his coffee.

He knew it wasn’t right to be upset about Bilbo going off and seeing family. After all, that was a normal, human thing to do. Just because _he_ didn’t do that, it didn’t mean Bilbo had to as well. Nevertheless, it made him more than a little grumpy, and he found himself ignoring phone calls he would usually answer, knowing that they would only put him in an even worse mood. 

Bilbo noticed something was up, too, though Thorin was sure he didn’t realise _why_. Bilbo seemed blissfully unaware of any pining on Thorin part. Thorin wasn’t sure if he should be thankful for that or not.

Fielder said he needed to just let it go. After all, Bilbo had his own life, and it wasn’t like Thorin could ask him to give that up, could he? Well, he _could_ , but it would be unreasonable of him. He could not live vicariously through someone else. That much was certain.

He stepped out of the house two more times that week, surprised when two people he didn’t recognised waved at him while they were putting their rubbish in the chute. Crepeshaw spoke to him again, albeit briefly, because Thorin pretended he had a phone call.

He found out that 207 had been rented out at last, and a nice couple lived there now. 203 was complaining to the landlord about weird noises coming from 202, and 202 was _insisting_ that the noises were not in fact coming from him, but from 203. Thorin heard the noises, too, sometimes, though he’d just assumed it was _his_ neighbour, 201.

He wrote about it all, no matter how boring, and it was nice to have some ideas about his characters, some facets that were normal and real and had not been told to him second hand. Not that he didn’t like Bilbo’s depictions of his neighbours. In fact, he loved them. But there was something about seeing something firsthand that made it all the more interesting. The best second hand description in the world was still just that. A second hand description.

Bilbo casually brought it up the day he was going to leave for his nephew's party. “The lady in 206 asked me to tell you that she loved the book you loaned her.”

“Okay,” Thorin didn’t look up from his computer.

“I didn’t know you’d been out.” There was a smile in Bilbo’s words that made Thorin stop.

He glanced up and shrugged. “I just went into the hall a few times.”

“Well, the most important thing to ask,” Bilbo began, looking deathly serious as he leaned against the table and looked down at Thorin. “Did you see the green trousers?”

Thorin snorted. “I did, yes. And they are very… green.”

“It’s an odd colour for trousers, isn’t it?” Bilbo mused now, running a hand over his chin. “Bright green.” He looked like he was in pain while he thought about it. “It’s just not a flattering colour on anyone, I don't think. Well,” he clapped his hands together. “I’d better go and get the shopping done, or else you’ll starve while I’m gone.”

Thorin felt himself deflate a little at that, but kept his concentration on his work. The hours passed slowly, and he even found himself staring at the deli down the street from his window, considering, though he decided against doing that just yet. He didn’t think he was ready for all the people out _there_. Besides, the clouds had set in and it was beginning to rain.

Bilbo had finished most of what he needed to do, save from mailing the letters Thorin still insisted on writing even though the mode of communication was outdated and obsolete, and they were sitting at his table, enjoying a coffee before Bilbo had to run off to go and catch his plane.

Thorin wasn’t really sure what Bilbo was rambling on about, but he was enjoying watching the way his face was flushed, and his eyes were lit with excitement, and his whole body moved animatedly in conjunction with his words. He didn’t really even remember speaking. “I’ll miss you.” The words came out in a sudden rush, and when he realised they came from _him_ , he choked on air and he felt his eye widen.

Bilbo looked surprised, but not angry. “What?”

“Well, you know,” he cleared his throat awkwardly, looking pointedly at his feet. “I’ll miss you.”

Bilbo was quiet for a long while, and Thorin was sure he’d just made a complete arse of himself. He was expecting a  weary look, or maybe excuses to leave early, but when he looked up, instead he found Bilbo smiling, and all of a sudden Bilbo was leaning forward and- _and_ _he was_ _kissing Thorin_.

And oh, _oh_ , that was nice.

But he had to pull away, because Thorin was certain this was a pity thing. What else could it be? Bilbo was… well, _Bilbo_ , and Thorin was… a mess. “You don’t have to do that, you know.” He said, after putting his hands to Bilbo’s shoulders and roughly pushing him back.

“What do you mean?”

“The whole pity thing.” Thorin managed to keep his voice level. “I don’t need it.”

Bilbo was frowning, looking more than a little hurt and confused. “What are you talking about?”

Thorin just waved his hands as if that explained everything. “Well, look at me. You wouldn’t want to be with me.”

There was a long silence, like the ball was waiting to drop, before Bilbo finally spoke again.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He sounded genuinely pained and _God, of course he didn’t understand_. “That I would be so shallow and snide and just damn egotistical that my opinion on you would come from the way your face looks?” He looked like he wanted to say more, but thought the better of it. Instead, he exhaled heavily through his nose, grabbed his jacket and yanked open the front door. “You really are a fucker, you know.” Bilbo said now, spinning on his heel to snap at him once more before he left. “I loved you and your stupid face before you even told me I had a job.” And then he was out the door before Thorin could reply, slamming it behind him.

Thorin had to go after him, or call him, or something because his flight was later that night and it’d be his last chance to, because surely Bilbo wouldn’t want to talk to him while he was with his family.

If this were some sort of rom-com, Thorin might have burst from the house, ran down the street and chased him down in the airport, making some long winded, beautiful speech. But Thorin was the world’s worst talker, and despite being perfectly healthy, he hadn’t run in a very, very long time, and he didn’t know the first thing about beautiful speeches. He didn’t know the first thing about being in love, and fuck, he was. He should have said it earlier, at least to himself. Should have fucking _done_ something about it instead of just look blankly at his screen and listen to the sounds of Bilbo pottering around the house.

This wasn’t a rom-com, and Thorin was damaged goods, and he still had trouble breathing when he peered out the front door and down the hall, but he was working on it. He wasn’t going to leave the complex just yet, he couldn’t. He doubted he’d even make it to the airport without having a panic attack. Not to mention he didn’t really even remember _how_ to get to the airport, and he didn’t know where Bilbo lived, so there was no way he could catch him while he got his things.

So instead of doing the cliché, romantic thing, he just grabbed the phone and called Bilbo’s mobile.

And of course it went to messages.

“I am a complete and utter fucker,” he began now. “I know you know that, but we both know I don’t admit it as much as I should. And,” he cleared his throat, “well, you’re _you_. You know, you’re… well, you’re not a fucker. At all. Not in the least bit. You can be annoying sometimes. Like, really annoying. You eat a sickening amount of apple pie and you talk too much but- _fuck_ , I like that about you, and… fuck-” the machine clicked, ending the allowed time to leave a message. Thorin hastily dialled Bilbo’s number again, fingers slipping over keys. “Although I still don’t like Apple Pie,” he continued, informing the machine when it clicked once more. “I suppose I should have tried to catch you before your flight, but the world hates me and I think you’d be up in the air by now, unless some miracle has occurred and your plane was delayed. But that doesn’t matter. I should have gone anyway, and stood in the terminal and watched your plane fly away and swear and annoy the other patrons, because I think that’s what you would have wanted me to do. I think. Look, I-I just…” he exhaled noisily, “I didn’t mean it in the way that I think you wouldn’t like me because of my scars. I know you’re not like that. I just- I’m a monumental failure, you know, and I just don’t deserve-” He yelled in frustration when the answering machine clicked out again and repressed the very strong urge to throw it through the wall.

He dialled once more, desperate to make it short and to the point. “I love you,” he blurted when he was asked to leave a message. “In a completely all-encompassing, stupid, brain melting, mind boggling, legs-turning-to-jello-and-not-working-when-you’re-around kind of way. And it’s your fault God; it’s all your fault. I mean, if you’d just kept your mouth shut and just did your job and maybe didn’t care then I might have… well, maybe not- certainly not, actually. But it’s still your fault. You didn’t have to go and _make_ me fall in love with you, you-” he released an exasperated groan. “Your machine is going to cut me off any second now and I’ve just realised I’ve been insulting you. I’ll just sum up: I’m a stupid fucker, please call me, I’m fairly certain I need you and not in an employee-employer way, but I just need you _here_ , muttering about what you saw this morning or complaining about how I never eat real food, or even yelling at me would be fine. Just, please. You could just call me. Just-” The line clicked, and Thorin exhaled loudly. “Call me.” He finished, speaking to the silence on the other end of the line.

He set the phone down slowly. He couldn’t make another painfully embarrassing call, even if he wanted to.

It began to thunder and rain quite badly after the sun set, and Thorin could see flashes of lightning from the windows. He spent a great deal of time just looking at his computer, pretending he was distracting himself with work.

He gave up when it hit eight and went to bed, falling asleep with a frown, the deluge going on outside suiting his mood exactly.

It was hours later that night when he was jolted awake by something, and in a sleepy daze heard his answering machine go off through the rumbling of thunder. “You’re an idiot. Eat the leftover bolognaise in the fridge.” Was the only thing said, and then the line disconnected.

Seems the best things _did_ happen during storms.

Thorin fell asleep with a smile on his face.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a fucker.


	6. Not a Rom-Com

Dis’s wedding was the loud, ridiculous shambles he’d expected it to be. Ripley was almost too hung over to stand by himself and Dis had tripped over her own dress while she walked down the aisle. His second cousin had gotten so drunk at the reception that he’d actually stumbled and fallen _into_ the wedding cake, which the kids then proceeded to steal to eat off of his face and suit.

The DJ had to have been the worst one imaginable, and Thorin watched with a pained face while the adults all got up to do the chicken dance. Dis threw her bouquet, and hit Louise Shelby in the face, which wasn’t all that good, not only because it was embarrassing but also because she was allergic and went into anaphylactic shock. But everything had settled down after she’d been taken to the hospital and sent word back that she was fine.

“I’ve never seen anyone’s face swell up that quickly.” Bilbo had said, bemused. They didn’t dance, because Thorin couldn’t and Bilbo was nice enough not to embarrass him like that. So they just ate crushed cake and watched everyone else on the dance floor. And Bilbo stopped Thorin at his third whiskey and started getting him the kids punch instead. They had their first proper kiss later that night, and it had all being going well before Thorin had slipped, slightly drunk, and split Bilbo’s lip when they crashed their heads together.

They had sex for the first time a week later, and Bilbo didn't complain when Thorin asked if they could have the lights off. He wasn't ready just quite yet to let Bilbo see all his scars. Maybe one day he'd find it had surprisingly easy to shed his clothes and let Bilbo look at his scars, or even enjoy the feel of Bilbo’s fingers and lips over them, but not just yet. He must have enjoyed it a little too much anyway, though, he supposed, because (due to the fact that Thorin hadn’t been with anyone in a very long time- including himself), it was both awkward and over embarrassingly fast. Afterwards he’d pressed his hands to his face, squeezing his eyes shut, and had made an embarrassed noise. Bilbo had just laughed, though, and pulled his hands away, smiling while he kissed him.

Bilbo still got him an éclair most mornings, and when Halloween rolled about, Thorin decided it was okay that he open the door because the kids just thought it was make-up. He even started to take the trash to the chute, much to Bilbo’s delight. _“I always hated that job.” He announced, “You can totally do that whenever you want.”_

For Christmas they agreed to get Crepeshaw a set of weights so he could bulk his arms up, and he Skyped his mother on Christmas Eve and watched them open the presents he’d sent. He also pointedly ignored her statements that he should be there with them and not cooped up in his apartment at all times. She didn’t cry though, so he counted that as a win. Maybe next year.

Bilbo was gone Christmas day; leaving Thorin alone in the apartment (at least, until Crepeshaw showed up with a half eaten turkey and one of those canned plum puddings). The lady from 206 came over as well, and when Crepeshaw began to show her how many push-ups he could do, Thorin had started drinking. He must have had too much, though, because he woke up on the floor on Boxing Day with an aching back and head.

He agreed to go and see Dwalin and Ori’s house… _sometime_ , which seemed to appease them for now at least. Bilbo had suggested they wait until the Jacuzzi go in, because why else would they go otherwise?

Frerin visited in January, which probably wasn’t the best idea, because Thorin ended up punching him, and the police were called about a domestic disturbance. Frerin had left, throwing his hands up and saying he was giving up on trying to help. Thorin could only hope.

Bilbo clicked his tongue and tutted and informed him later that day that if he was going to continue being a sour bastard when his brother came round, then they could try and sought it out. Thorin disagreed. Frerin had to stop being an annoying son of a bitch and then Thorin would stop being a sour bastard.

He fought with Bilbo a lot, mostly about little, silly things. Sometimes about big things. Bilbo stormed out a lot, too, and sometimes Thorin just went into his room, because, really, where else was he going to stalk off to? And then they’d kiss and make up, and then fight again about something else later.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was good.

After all, this wasn’t some sort of rom-com.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! No evil, sinister plot or wrongdoings- just fluffy fluff-fluff. Sorry if you were expecting some big plot twist or something, I wasn't really keen on turning this into a longer, angsty sort of story.


End file.
